A Beautiful Lie
by Holli-chan
Summary: "This is the story of A, from the eyes of the person who knew him the best. And that, obviously, would be me." B/A, BB POV, Wammy's House Days. Mentions L, K, and some OC's. Rated M for a reason. YAOI.
1. How To Beguin?

**A/N: *Sigh* well… don't kill me. Jeevas, I couldn't resist! This idea has been buggine me for-ev-er. I **_**promise **_**I won't let this fic distract me too much from Heartburn. I swear to god. Sure, I might not update QUITE as fast now, but hell, I update nearly every other day now, so you people will survive. Besides, I'm hoping that you'll all enjoy this fic ^_^' so yeah. I've always wanted to do a B/A fic too, so yeah. There's not enough of them! XD SO yeah…. Please enjoy! Oh, and…**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note**

If any normal person were to glance at A for the first time, the first reaction world more than likely be _gray. _Not just because of the color of his hair, either, which happens to be dark slate gray, or the smoky blue-gray color of his huge, constantly widened eyes. But also because of the aura that he seems to give off - he's secluded and quiet around people he doesn't know, and tends to put a shadow over himself, constantly having his nose buried in some book or hunched over some notebook, scribbling frantically away. He's smart, brilliant really, but he's very quiet and modest about it, preferring to hide it behind his own anxiety. It's a wonder they even found him to bring him into Wammy's at all. A's small, too, and quiet; he seems to shrink even smaller if you even appear to want to approach him. His very presence screams antisocial.

He's not quite anti-social, though, despite the first glance. He's just not exactly the most sensual when it comes to relationships with other people, or when it comes to choosing the people he wants to have relationships _with. _Sure, plenty of decent, normal people try to approach him. C, for instance, tried over and over to befriend him; she was a nice girl, I suppose, though she was never quite as clever as A and I, and didn't ever come close to being L successor before she was murdered. But that's a story I don't have time to tell - I'm talking about A.

Yes, A was never good at choosing his friends. He chose the worst kind of people to become involved with. Namely, he befriended _me. _And I, surely, am the worst kind of person to befriend, no matter how many times he tried to convince me otherwise.

Mercy. Where to I begin about this one? If I'm correct, you hardly know who he is. He's not mentioned much in the history of this world; his is not a story generally told to anybody. It is a story only known through the tiny whispers that echo through the halls of Wammy's house, or stored in the memories of the few people alive who still remember him first-hand. People like me, for example, from my place in this crazy-house. Where do I begin to talk about this boy, when you probably were not even aware he existed until my mention of him?

Well, I suppose I should start from the very beginning, if you will. But I warn you now, reader - this is not a happy story. It is one of bittersweet affection, pain, misery, blood, and horror. This story is unhappy, from beginning to end. But, if you must know, I will tell you.

This is the story of A, from the eyes of the person who knew him the best. And that, obviously, would be me.


	2. The Price We Pay

**December 24****th**** - **I remember that day, like most other days thanks to my photogenic memory, perfectly. It was not the beginning of my entire life, as some stories begin, but it was the day that I began the path I am on today. It was the day that, if done even slightly differently, I would not be telling you this story at all.

* * *

The snow was falling outside my bedroom window, drifting downwards from the clouds above at a leisurely pace. I watched one particular snowflake make it's decent to the ground below, where the grass that I imagined must still be there, hidden under a great frozen blanket of snow. The sunlight through the clouds was glaring blindingly off of the white, shining into my eyes, but all the same it was strangely gorgeous. Had I not been alive for seasons before this, I would not have known there was green beneath the whiteness at all, for there was no hint of the ever-abundant plant peeking through the surface - the snow was too thick.

It was because of this particular snow that I was home at that moment. I should have been at kindergarten, like every other Thursday of the year, but instead I was cooped up inside my mother's apartment on a Snow Day. I did not ever call this apartment "my" apartment, mind you - I did not own it, I did not pay the rent, and my name was not on the property contract. Just because she was my mother did not give me right to claim possession over her belongings - I knew that even at the fragile age of five and a half. Not that I even desired to own the apartment - it was a pretty shabby place, especially the bathroom. I tended to not like to use that bathroom, and was usually sure to use the schoolhouse restroom or public restrooms as much as I could in effort to stay away from the toilet, which looked, and I assume _was_, as dangerous as I made it seem. It was a challenge, but in my five year old head, it was worth it.

Despite the overwhelming presence of the frozen H2O and my lack of knowledge-gain (actually, there was a lack of knowledge gain at kindergarten anyway, since I was already secretly reading my mother's collage-level books and studying any high school textbooks I could get my chubby five year old hands on, but that wasn't the point) this day seemed like a pretty typical one. At least, it did to everyone but me.

Then again, I was not everyone.

A better example of one of these so called _everyone's_ would be my little sister, Lovely. Yes, I understand what you're thinking, but yes - her name was sincerely Lovely. My mother had a strange taste in names. There was no lie nor nickname about it - Lovely Birthday.

I knew this for certain, for I could see it above her head, dancing there in red letters as she sat on her bed, bouncing on the creaky mattress as my mother struggled to pull her out of her clothes. Even as said child continued to complain, loudly and for the world to hear, my sweet dear mother continued to dress her little child, ebony hair falling over her face. Above her head, too, were the red letters, the symbols, the numbers. _Angela Birthday_. I didn't understand why I understood what they meant, those numbers above their heads - I had never actually learned this language from anybody, been taught by no one how to understand these numbers that floated across everyone's head. The knowledge seemed to simply be imprinted into my mind already.

Their numbers were running out. On their clock they both had less than twenty four hours. I knew, in my five year old heart, that they were going to die. They were going to die together, one's life stolen away by some event right before the other.

Lovely would be the first to go.

I turned and went back to watching the snow make a blanket over the world, the knowledge still there in my mind, daring me to die along with them.

* * *

I did not, in fact, die along with them, but there was a time that I wished that I had.

My mother was not a healthy woman. She was what you would call clinically depressed - she never slept, she rarely ate, she didn't go into work anymore, she barely took care of her children. She spent all her time in bed, never really sleeping, just staring blankly at the peeling wallpaper of the wall in front of her. I would watch her, sometimes, as she did that, her dark brown eyes wide and perfectly round, jaw usually clenched. Sometimes she would tremble or start whispering to herself. She would whisper names, sometimes. I never understood what she meant, when I watched her from the doorway. I was within her line of vision, I knew, but she never seemed to notice I was there.

Sometimes, because of my mother's long escapes in the bedroom, Lovely would cry. She'd bawl and shake her tiny fists in the air outside the door, pleading with her mother to let her in, or to feed her, or to play with her, or some other worldly desire. I would watch her as she begged and cried, her frizzy brown hair everywhere, unbrushed or tended to because Lovely was dependant. Useless without Angela or some adult around. She was helpless.

Helplessness, no matter how cruel or blank the woman, is what a mother responds to. The door would always open just for her, just enough to let the brunette slip through and cuddle into bed with Angela. I never got that luxury. Mother loved her best - I was just a mistake. So yes - she was the favorite.

That must be why it was Lovely was the one she chose to bring with her.

I was not there to witness their deaths. I had gone out to stand in the snow, to feel the frozen air on my skin. I've always loved the feeling of cold, the way it makes you feel clean. The snow was making intricate dances around me as I watched, eyes following it on it's spiraling path to meet with the ground below.

I was just getting up to go back inside when their numbers ran out. By the time I entered the building, my family was gone.

They were not gone in the usual sense, of course. They were dead.

Toting my five-year-old self into the house I slammed the door shut, eyes scanning the house. I called out for my sister, to yell at her for leaving her boots out in the middle of the floor again, but I got no response - that was unusual, since Lovely was always such the talker. A frown flickered over my face, causing my nose to wrinkle in irritation. The bathroom door across the hall was open, so I hurried across the room to peek inside.

I knew she was dead even before I noticed she wasn't breathing - the numbers were gone. My mother was laying on the bathroom floor, her ebony hair falling across her face, hiding her soulless blue eyes. My little sister laid loosely in her arms, frail body completely limp. It made her look like a lifeless porcelain doll. You might think, if you hadn't had my vision, that they were simply asleep at a glance, except that Lovely was soaking wet, her brunette hair sticking to the lifeless features of her young face. She was only two, and she had been drowned by my mother; Angela had drugged herself to death, dooming them to this final moment, dying with her daughter in her arms.

I wonder to this day what Lovely was thinking as the only person she ever trusted sent her to her death?

Five years of age, standing in that bathroom with them, I did not scream. I only stared. I was not scared or angry - I had seen their deaths coming in the cruelest of ways, as simple, obvious numbers above their heads, just like everyone else's. I did not love them - Angela ignored me, and all Lovely did was cry. I had seen their deaths coming - I was unsurprised. And yet, standing there looking at them, I was disbelieving all the same. I had expected an accident, a murder, perhaps a freak accident to kill them, not… _this_. I was not prepared for this cruel scene. I wasn't prepared to see them looking so…dead.

They always tell you as a child that people look like their asleep when they die, but they don't. They just look _dead._

I turned away and walked out to the living room the call the police, not a sound uttering form my mouth, not a scream nor a wail. Most five year olds would have done something, but not me - I was just blank, as if following instructions on the box, monotonous in my mind, telling me what I had to do. Walk away, Beyond. Reach for the phone, Beyond. Call 9-1-1, Beyond. They're gone, but call them anyway, Beyond. Good, Beyond… Now tell them what happened.

_Tell them that your family is dead._

**August 2nd. **

A's story began as it would end - with death.

This was not something I was there to witness, but I will tell you the very best that I can, even if it tears the slim remainder of my heart in two.

* * *

Nurses scrambled through the white-themed room, frantic yelps and shouted orders flying through the room, doctors marching through the room as the woman was rolled in on a stretcher, screaming and crying. There was no man at her side to comfort her, but rather another woman, who claimed to be her sister. The receptionist that allowed her access knew this much be bullshit, but said nothing about it.

Hospital-folk pushed the stretcher through the double doors of the hospital room, hastily lifting the person onto the hospital bed. Or rather, lifted the _two _people onto the hospital bed - in this body was not just the woman herself, but a little boy as well.

There was pride in the woman's eyes accompanied by frantic pain as she broke into sweat, shrieking uninterruptible words at the top of her shrill voice, British accent obvious even in her pain, hands tangling in the bed sheets. Nurses whispered words of empty comfort to the blonde woman, only good intentions in their hearts, but the woman only continued her shouting, tears springing to her eyes - she couldn't hear them, her ears ringing and her entire body going into spasms.

The woman who had accompanied the soon-to-be-mother spun around to face the doctor in charge of this operation, a look of panic on her delicate young face, blonde hair messy around her oval face. "What is wrong?" she demanded, voice shrill and thickly British-sounding, her 'what' sounding like 'wot'. In almost any other situation, the accent would have been adorable to the doctor, but Dr. Hasher's mind was elsewhere. A grave look had fallen upon his bristled face as he eyed the files, glancing over his clipboard to look at the convulsing woman. Something was going very wrong.

But Dr. Hasher was not one to give up. He sprung into action, shouting orders to scrambling nurses and diving into the operation. Mr. Hasher was an excellent doctor, world class they said; he would do his very best for this woman and her baby.

His best was not good enough.

The woman died whilst giving life her son, the labor too much on her and sending her to a painful death. She would never see her baby boy's face, nor would she ever know him or love him. The last thing she would ever see was the face of the woman who was not her sister but her lover, sobbing above her before she lost consciousness. Begging her to stay but knowing all the same that she was a goner.

I do not know her last thought, but if I know correctly, she loved her. And her son. I do not even know her name, this mother, but I respect her for how she was. She was too brave to hate the baby she brought into the world, even if he killed her in the process.

And so the life of Aidan Aycott, better known as A, began.

* * *

**August 5th. **Again I say, this is not a story I want to tell you, because it is more painful, to me, than my own family story. But I will tell you none the less, because you knowing is crucial, despite my own selfish résumé.

* * *

Andrea Brown loved him immediately.

She couldn't imagine _why _she loved him so much, of course - he had, weather he had meant to or not, killed the love of her life. And yet she could not possibly hold a grudge - despite not being physically related to the little child, despite the fact that this child was the result of her lover being raped, despite the fact that this child was not her's to love, she loved it anyway.

She loved how little Aidan's big blue eyes looked up at her when she was asked to hold it, even when his mother was dead on the hospital bed. She was fascinated by the way Aidan never cried, simply watched, oversized gray-blue eyes always seeming to see straight to your soul. She adored him and his weird gray hair, and his pouty lips, and the way that he had his mother's eye-shape. She wasn't sure where the color of his eyes came from - the rapist, now in jail, had dark eyes, and his mother had a mint green, but she adored his blue anyway.

Andrea brown loved her lover's little killer.

But the baby was not hers, not legally, despite being the only one in the world who seemed to care for him. He was, by law, to be taken to Joshua and Peggy Aycott in the unexpected situation that Ms. Aycott would die. Andrea had no rights to this baby, even though she loved it, even though she loved the mother, even though she pleaded and begged, even though she had been beside her through the entire pregnancy and the years before after her parents, the people to be taking this baby from her now, had disowned her for her sexual preference.

It's not my place to judge in this situation. I'm simply the narrative voice. But if my tone has somehow seeped through onto these pages and tainted these words, and if I sound disgusted to the very highest degree, that is because I am.

Andrea lost the baby and her partner that day, and could only watch, wailing and sobbing, as the gray-haired infant was carried away in another woman's arms. Pleading with Dr. Hasher to do something, do _anything, _her manicured fingernails digging into his arm helplessly. He could do nothing, though, and could only look away in pity and disgrace.

Maybe the doctor could have done something. Maybe the lawyer could have done something. Maybe someone, _anyone, _could have done something. If anyone would have acted instead of just viewed, had someone decided not to turn their head away in quiet sympathy and instead fight for this little boy and his not-quite-mother, perhaps I would not be telling this story. Perhaps A's life would not be so bloodstained and tragic.

Nobody did this something.

Andrea watched in distain as the car pulled away from the hospital, her nails still digging into the doctors arm, staring down the woman in the window. Peggy, better known to the public as Mrs. Aycott, glanced at her for only an instant through the passenger window, but Andrea knew. She could see the blame there. She was being blamed for this incident, even though it was an infinity away from being her fault.

Andrea hated them. She hated Peggy Aycott for taking that baby away from her, that baby that was _her's_ by love and not blood. She hated the doctor for allowing this to happen, for allowing the baby's mother to die and leave them to this fate. She hated her lawyer, for not trying hard enough for her. She hated the random pedestrians staring at her as she collapsed, screaming at the top of her lungs, her words crude and accusing as she turned to face the sky, her tears streaking her mascara down her cheeks in a trial of black.

"Damn it! WHY! Why the hell did you let this happen! She prayed every day! She was a good person! She LOVED! She was GOOD! Why did this happen to her! Why did this happen to us! What did we do to deserve this!"

Andrea didn't know who in the world she was screaming at anymore, and thus the world gave no response to her pleas.

* * *

**August 9th**

Aidan did not stay with his grandparents for long. The curse he seemed to have did not spare these people. But you should not feel bad for them - they did not love the little boy. He was just a reminder of their failed attempt at a decent daughter.

The little gray-haired boy was only a week old when Peggy died. She died in the most innocent of actions - she was in the bathroom, listening to Blues music on her old-style stereo, humming along as she relaxed into the hot water. She was having what she'd like to think was well-deserved chill-time. She was too old to be taking care of an infant, especially some bastard child of her dead fag-daughter. Why she'd even fought to adopt the little bastard was beyond her. Probably to cause that bitchy Satanist, Andrea, pain.

She would repent for that thought later, probably, but for now she just wanted a nice warm bath and some good music.

As she laid there she was interrupted by the sound of Aidan wailing. He was asking for food, which had been neglected to be supplied to him, waving his little arms through the air. Not crying, just letting out shrill cries as always. Peggy groaned angrily, too comfortable to get up and comfort him.

She died turning up the volume on her radio to drown out the pleas of her grandson. Killed, in a way, by her own selfishness.

When Joshua returned home from a busy day at work, he arrived to the sound of humming. It was a weird sound to hear - usually he would get a hello from his wife, or be annoyed by cries from Aidan, or be greeted by the noisiness from the television or stereo. It was a strange thing to hear humming. It was even stranger, perhaps, that it was not in his wifes voice but rather the timid, quiet young voice of the week-old Aidan. It was a ghostly kind of noise, strangely rhythmic and velvety sounding. A strange noise to be coming from a week-year-old, but Aidan wasn't a typical five-year-old at all. His smoky gray-blue pools of eyes stared upwards in search for the person he knew must have just come in, that was walking past the crib he was trapped in.

Joshua did not pause to take a second glance at the tuneful boy staring up at him, though, with those smoky-blue eyes he secretly despised. He waltzed forward into the bathroom to take a shower, muttering to himself about possessed infants.

Joshua Aycott found his wife dead, staring back at him with enlarged, fried gray-green eyes, killed in her own place of relaxation and peace. Death by electrocution.

Aidan let out a joyful little giggle, completely oblivious as his grandfather collapsed to the floor and wept.

* * *

**August 6th. **Aidan Aycott becomes a full legal orphan when his grandfather is sent to a psyche ward after an attack on Andrea Brown. He will never leave this institution, rather dying of a mysterious heart attack at age sixty-seven, never seeing the outside world again. Aidan is set loose into "the system."

Andrea Brown never saw the little boy she loved again. On **September 3rd, **unable to successfully claim ownership of Aidan, she leapt off a bridge and killed herself, joining the ranks of the people who died for Aidan Aycott, later known as A.

_They were a small price to pay._

* * *

**A/N: WELL. This was **_**slightly **_**morbid. But it's from B's POV, what do you expect, I mean really? Well, anyways, I hope nobody kills me for making another multi-chapter… *sneaky nervous eyes* I'm going to make another chapter of Heartburn now, kay? Kay? Yeah, ok.**


	3. Stalking Destiny

**February 4th**. That was, quite possibly, the most important day of _my_ life. More important than the day I was born, the day my parents died, or even the day I met A or L, since I wouldn't have known them otherwise. It was the day I was _saved._

I was surrounded by idiots. Of that I was sure, at least then.

I had been transferred into an orphanage after the death of my mother and sister, Lovely. It seemed that I was without any relatives that were fit to care for me – I had an Aunt somewhere in South America, but she was a druggie and couldn't be trusted with a child, and a grandfather in the Americas who didn't even know I existed and was in a senior home anyway – he would be dead before he even had the chance to try and take care of me, so going to him would be useless. The orphanage was a quaint little one in England. Quite shabby, really, but it was better than my old apartment in many ways. There were exactly 97 children when I first arrived at the place – I was the ninety eighth – but I decided not to keep counting as children were adopted and brought in almost every week.

And I was quite convinced that the entire orphanage was ridiculously stupid.

I wasn't rude or open about it, but it was what I thought. How could I not have? Of course, I was only partially right – most of them weren't _stupid_, they just weren't even close to being as smart as me; they were average, and I was brilliant beyond measure, especially for a five year old. All the other children ever did was play with stupid toys, cry for their already deceased parents, eat, and sleep. It seemed that they were completely unable to hold a good conversation, either, and after the second attempt I stopped trying. One of them, a little boy named Samuel, was even convinced that his parents were going to come back for him. He would brag that his parents still loved him, and when they returned they would come with riches and gifts and whisk him off to paradise. Everyone knew this wasn't true, especially me – I had seen his files. His parents had died in a car accident while he was at a slumber party two years ago. They were never coming back. He was foolish to think otherwise.

Even the adults at the orphanage were stupid. I couldn't even comprehend how ridiculous the entire ordeal was. I used vocabulary that confused my caretakers – they were all quite convinced I was being an 'arrogant little brat' when I corrected their mistakes on a regular basis. I wasn't – they just made a lot of stupid mistakes. It was hardly _my _fault they were idiots. They were idiots so much that they were convinced that I was "troubled." That this "troubled" feeling inside of me, caused more than likely in their mind by the death of my family, was what kept me from playing with the other children, that kept me in my room from dusk till dawn, reading huge thick books and eating jam instead of playing outside and chattering like squirrels.

So troubled, in fact that they sent me to a therapist. A _therapist. _As in a know-it-all adult with a pinched up face and a faux-soothing voice, who somehow convince people to throw large sums of money at them just so they could tell you what you already thought you knew – "this boy is not normal."

Janet Smith, as was my therapist's name, was exactly like that. She thought she knew _everything. _I would sit in that office for two hours, twice a week, and talk to her. That was pretty much all we did. I never lied to her because that wasn't something I was apparently allowed to do in a therapist's office. I answered each of her stupid questions with all of their obvious responses.

"I don't talk to other children, because their stupid and don't understand anything I say. I don't play outside because I don't like playing outside. I stay up late because I don't like sleeping much. I don't pay attention during the classes because I already know everything they are teaching. I don't eat because I don't like the food. I eat jam because I enjoy the taste of jam." And then my own question. "May I leave now?"

She told me I was having some sort of disorder. I don't remember what she called it, but whatever it was it was bullshitting. "You're acting this way because you're scared, Beyond. Frightened of rejection, right, Beyond? Because your parents are dead?"

No. That wasn't it at all. Didn't she hear my explanation?

But enough about that. Back to the point – if I had to stay in that orphanage another day, I was going to go truly insane. At least, more insane than I already was.

And then a man who called himself Watari showed up at the door, and saved me.

His name wasn't really Watari. It was Quillish, Quillish Wammy. I knew this because I could see the numbers, the scarlet red symbols that paraded like a taunt above his head, just like everyone else's. I remember the day he came in exactly, perfectly crystal clear in my mind.

I was outside, for once. One of the caretakers, Andrew Wilder, who would be dead thirty-two years from now unless his fate changed somehow (which it probably wouldn't), had forced me to go outside. I would have put up more of a fight, but the weather was strangely nice out that day. About 65 degrees, partly cloudy, but with just enough sunshine to warm you up; no annoying, chilly breeze, either. It was rare weather for England – it was always raining around here, I had discovered over the few weeks I had been residing in the country, so the sunshine was a pleasant surprise even for me.

There was a very nice but creaky swinging chair outside on the lawn that I particularly enjoyed. So did many of the other orphans, though. I had to race down the lawn to be the first to get to it, and had smirked with victory when a little girl named Victoria Young – she would live a long life, if you were wondering – pouted in complaint before tossing her hair and running after her friends. Friend's weren't something I had, unlike this Victoria girl, unless you counted my books. I had a lot of books. I collected them wherever I could get them, and despite being only five years of age – almost six, but still – I could read faster than most adults could. I could remember every word.

I was settled in with a particularly good book, Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare (I wasn't aware he was so famous at this age, mind you, so I was shocked and thrilled to find that he was such a complicated author at the time.) The giggling and squealing of the children around me was almost drowned out by the scene that had formed in my head, painted by the words on the page.

I had just reached the balcony scene when the car pulled in.

A car wasn't really that odd of a sight at the orphanage – it was a well known orphanage, really, and adopters and such showed at a pretty decent rate. But this visitor was unexpected and very, very flashy. The car was a black 1939 Ford Roadster, and in mint condition from the look of it. I peered over the side of the book to peek towards it, watching as the child-hoard almost simultaneously swerved around to get a better look at it, moving almost like a singular mass instead of 97diffrent children. Several ran up to get a closer look at the car, a few shamelessly pressing their hands on the smooth black metal of the vehicle, awe in huge eyes. A few of the older children tried to look indifferent and chilled, but they were staring at the car all the same when they thought no one was looking.

I wasn't interested in the car, though. What interested me enough to look up from my very enjoyable book was the man who climbed _out _of the car.

He was a bit more than middle aged, 53 to be more exact, but he was a pleasant looking man. He had salt-and-pepper hair, which would soon be completely white with age, combed back in an elegant fashion, his mildly aged face in a perpetual, glowing smile, revealing pleasant laugh-lines around his eyes and a set of amazingly white teeth. There were the beginnings of a mustache on his lip and very bushy eyebrows, a chiseled face. He was wearing a pair of thin-framed glasses on the crook of his nose, a suit that appeared to be expensive, and a quaint black hat sitting lopsided at the top of his head. The death date above his head was kind of miraculous – he would have lived, had his fate not been twisted by other worldly phenomenon's, to be 103.

What I noticed most about him were his eyes. They seemed to be constantly shut, though if you weren't looking for the feature you might not have noticed it. Shut when he smiled, shut when he frowned at the children leaving fingerprints on his rear windows, and closed when he started his waltz towards the doors. Odd.

It was as if he could sense me staring at him, because for a moment he did open his eyes. When they did, they were brown, and they were looking straight at me.

I stared back until he looked away; admittedly, I was intimidated. Most people didn't hold my gaze for more than a few seconds – I was not the most "cute" of children, what with the red eyes and what not. He didn't seem intimidated at all. Even stranger, he smiled when he saw me, in this knowing sort of way. The kind of way that, to me, made me think that he was there for _me _and me alone. Despite thinking that I knew that I was wrong, it still troubled me.

I was wrong about being wrong, if that makes any sense at all.

What I mean was that he _was _there for me. Quillish Wammy had come to set me on my path to L – a path that, though I didn't know it for certain at that delicate age, he knew for a fact I would never reach.

**February 6th**was the daythat Beyond Birthday died.

Do not get me wrong – I didn't _really _die. If you looked up Beyond Birthday in a file, it would put this date as his death, but of course that was not the case. Beyond Birthday's death certificate said this date as well, but on February 6th said boy – me – or at least, his body, was still very much alive. He just became, in a way, a different person.

Beyond Birthday left that day, and was replaced by the second letter of the Wammy's alphabet. B – _B_ackup. Backup to the almighty L, the greatest detective in the world - who also happened to be, at that time, a nine year old. But that was okay, since his backup was only six anyway.

**August 8th. **A is admitted to an orphanage in Brittan. He is five years old when the event happens, on **January 17, **which also happened to be around the time I was admitted to my _first _orphanage, which would set him apart from other children even more than before.

The sun was glinting off of the large expanse of water, shining into the eyes of a gray haired boy squatted on the pier. The lake was a huge one, seeming to stretch off into forever in the smoky eyes of Aidan Aycott. He was fascinated by the scene, the way the clear water of the lake reflected the sky so perfectly, the cloudy blue of the atmosphere above rippling when he grazed his hand along it. It was like sky, and yet still water. Liquid sky.

_Liquid sky. _Aidan smiled at the idea, wiping his damp hand on his cargos and turning to sit on his knees, grabbing his backpack. He carried that backpack everywhere he went – it was a dark navy blue, with white trims and zippers, and was covered in buttons and iron-on patches. A person that ran the first orphanage he had been to, named Sandy or Sandra or something along those lines, had told him that it was his mother's. He told her that his mother died, that he had killed her (he had, indirectly); she had only smiled and said, "Your other mother."

He'd never asked what she meant.

Ripping the pack open he pulled out one of several notebooks from inside, along with his favorite mechanical pencil. He couldn't stand regular pencils – they always needed to be sharpened, and when you did it got shavings everywhere, and they were wood so they weren't any fun to grip, and they got short and hard to hold after a while, and even when they were perfectly sharp and new the marks they made would fray. Mechanical pencils were precise. Yes, if there was anything Aidan liked in that timid age of four and a half, it was a clean pencil mark. Writing was something he loved – he lived and breathed literature and poetry. He wrote everything – his thoughts in his journals, his poems in his poetry notebook, his observations in his scientific notebook; he went as far, sometimes, as plopping himself on a bench and scribbling down descriptions of the people who walked by, trying to guess where they were going, who they were, what they were like, just by a glimpse. There were, by approximate, about 2,000 people with their name and description in a notebook, along with observation and theory that sounded as if it came from a skillful adult but was written by a five year old – and they weren't even aware of it.

That was another thing that fascinated Aidan – all the things you wouldn't ever know. For instance, Aidan would never know what the redheaded girl at the orphanage had meant by the weird look she gave him that first day, or exactly what week of the day the pencil he was writing on was made, or what kind of tree the paper he was scribbling upon used to be.

Speaking of paper, this notebook was almost full. He had just enough room on this one page, however, to finish his poem on "liquid sky" before shoving the now filled to the brink notebook back into his bag. After a moment of staring out over the water, the lake that reflected the clouds, he turned and made his leisurely pace back to the orphanage.

At least, Aidan had planned on going back to the orphanage. But he was, as he often was, distracted by something.

Not something so much as _someone. _

Said someone was sitting across from Aidan as he plodded down the street, on the park bench. Now, just any boy on a park bench might have been a pointless observation, except it wasn't just any boy – it was a very unique boy. So much so that Aidan slowed his pace and came to a stop a good distance away, pausing to stare despite knowing this was rude.

The boy, who looked to be about nine, was sitting in an odd way, his shoe-less feet placed firmly at the edge of the bench, hands on his knees, hunched over so that his chest was pressed against his legs, sitting poised as if to pounce. He had jet black hair that was obscenely messy and brushed mostly to one side, along with largely pronounced panda-eyes. Aidan noticed with a startle that he didn't have eyebrows, either. He was, in Aidan's eyes, odd. And yet there was something about him, this weird older child sitting on the bench, that fascinated him. He felt drawn to him, in a sense, an overwhelming urge to approach him taking hold.

But Aidan was not the confrontational type, especially not with strangers. So he did what he did best. He wrote.

Sitting on a tree stump across the way he settled into his own sitting position – which was sitting with his feet tucked under him – and pulled out his red notebook. This notebook was thick and full of a lot of paper, with big black sharpie-letters across the front. "_OBSERVATIONS."_

And observe he did. He wrote at top speed – but still with expertly neat handwriting, mind you – leaning forward gradually as he wrote and glancing up at the boy every few moments as he did, for more observation. I read and memorized this observation book, and he had several pages about this particular boy; a grin was slowly forming on his face as he wrote.

_**Boy – about 8-10 years of age – sitting on park bench outside West Ave. – sitting in odd crouch-to-pounce position. Black under eyes – is he isnomatic, or is it eye shadow? He's being very quiet about it, but he's observing too, I think – he's not looking at me, but he's watching a woman. He's not attracted to her or not hitting on her at least – he's looking at her face and her paperwork, not her body. Dark ebony eyes, dark hair, very pale skin. No shoes, neither on his feet nor on the bench beside him, though there is no dirt on his feet. He keeps wiggling his toes. Is he one of those strange people who can write with their toes, I wonder? He's not smiled the entire time he has been sitting there. Is he sad? I don't think so. He seems intelligent. He's eating candy from a bag. Skittles. No, M&M's – there are no blue skittles. It's strange – he's eating them in specific order. Red, Orange, Brown, Blue, Green, Yellow. Over and over again – is he doing it on propose? I think he must be. He keeps glancing down the street, but not at me, at the road. Guess: he's waiting for someone, perhaps a parental figure. He seems impatient. He keeps chewing his thumb – nervous habit, or being thoughtful? Guess: he's smart. Guess: he's quiet? Maybe. He's either quiet or loud, I can't decide. He seems very odd, though, definitely.**_

Aidan was just getting ready to go into description on his clothing when suddenly the boy jumped out of his chair. He landed with almost cat-like grace as he did, which surprised the gray-haired boy immensely, and he quickly scribbled it down before standing up himself in response. _**Graceful, quick on his feet, unexpectedly strengthful poise despite slump in shoulders/back area. **_The strange boy was plodding off in the other direction, head swinging slightly back and forth as he glanced around to observe the area around him as he walked, but never once looking behind him as Aidan swung his backpack over his shoulder and followed.

Stalking was not something a five-year-old Aidan did, ever. His observations almost never followed one person for more than a few minutes, and he never pursuit them like this. But he found himself craving more information on this boy – he had this feeling about him that said that he was a mysterious kind of person. That he wouldn't see him again after this. And he had to know more. _**Probably foreign, not British from what I can tell. Can't tell his ethnic, though he's got white skin. **_He wrote as he walked something he was skilled at, ignoring the other people he passed but never running into them.

_**He seems socially inept, **_he wrote thoughtfully, in observation that he walked in such a stoic way that he didn't even seem to notice that people were trying to get past him. A woman tried to approach him as Aidan watched, but he dodged to the side in a very obvious way to avoid her, shoving his hands in his pockets. _**Doesn't seem to like people much. Keeps hands in pockets. At first glance he seems just shy, but he acts very certain about himself somehow. Guess: He spends a lot of time alone.**_

Suddenly, to Aidan's surprise, the raven-haired man swerved to the left, ducking into an alleyway. It was an unexpected, jerky movement, and it was obvious by the way he did it – at least for A it was obvious that is – that he was meaning to not be followed.

Meaning that Aidan should not follow. Meaning that it was private, whatever that boy was doing, and possibly dangerous. This odd boy could be a serial killer or a child prostitute for all he knew – he shouldn't be following him around.

Aidan's curiosity, however, won over his logic as it usually did. Gathering up his nerves he hurried after the other, glancing nervously behind him for just an instant to see if he were being followed just as this boy he was stalking was. As far as he could tell, he wasn't, so he took off down the alleyway. He was met, however, only by disappointment.

The raven-haired child was nowhere to be found, the shadowed alleyway eerily silent and empty, save for a dumpster and the usual alleyway junk. Aidan couldn't contain the extreme displeasure at this discovery, shoulders slumping slightly as he took a few more tentative steps down the alleyway, eyes scanning the space for the boy he was following. His fingers tightened on his pencil like a weapon on instinct, the pointless feeling of being cornered despite being seemingly alone in the shady alley kicking in from the back of his young mind.

Aidan sighed, disgruntled, lingering in the alleyway and glancing down at his paper. Not bothering to leave the passage beforehand, he began writing. _**I lost him. He ducked into an alleyway, and I hesitated before following him, so I don't know where he is now. Guess: he definitely didn't want to be followed. Was he EXPECTING to be followed? Guess: He's here for something not exactly legal. Or perhaps something government related? He's too young for that, though, isn't he? He's only nine or something.**_

The gray-haired boy hesitated, his pencil lingering over the page. Why did he keep thinking that this boy was something special? He could very well be just another weirdo from around the city – it wouldn't be that unusual. Sure, he sat funny and acted strange, but that didn't make him spectacular. And yet Aidan couldn't shake the feeling that the panda-eyed boy he'd spotted was something to be awed over. Blankly, Aidan started to chew the eraser on his pencil, staring at the entry in his hand.

After a while of standing there Aidan sighed, pulling his backpack off of his shoulder and shoving the still-opened notebook back into it without bothering to close it. He was being ridiculous – it was just some kid. Who cares? Not him.

He quickly contradicted himself when he turned around and was immediately met with a quizzical face, inches from his own.

"Mercy!" Aidan screeched in surprise, jumping backwards and nearly stumbling completely over in his effort to get away from the surprising proximity, heart leaping in his chest. The raven-haired man, who had seemingly appeared out of the blue over his shoulder, now stood over him, giving him a curious look. Aidan watched, frozen in place by the ebony stare of the young boy in front of him, who happened to be chewing his thumb in that thoughtful manner again.

After a long time, the boy spoke. "You were following me." It wasn't a question.

Aidan blinked, a bit perplexed by the straight-to-the-point nature of the boy, but not surprised really. It was what he had expected after the observation. Still, the bluntness from the other boy caused a blush to scatter across the gray-haired boy's cheeks, gaze darting to his shoes.

The other boy didn't give him time to reply, speaking again, the smaller boy's reaction an answer enough for him. "Stalking is illegal, you know," he told him in a scolding way. Aidan looked up at him with huge gray-blue eyes, blinking several times in surprise.

"Wot?" he stammered, looking upset by the accusation, hugging his backpack to his chest. "I was not stalking you. I was simply _observing_ you," he explained in a defensive way, trying to act unintimidated by the coal black eyes staring at him.

The dark-haired boy's mouth opened slightly, as if to make a remark, then frowned and closed it again. Quickly realizing that he really didn't have any clever retort for that one. Thinking about it for a second before replying, he tapped his finger to his lips, watching the gray-harierd boy as he squirmed. Aidan was never good at staying still, wavering from one foot to the other as he stood, consistently reaching up to brush his shaggy bangs out of his eyes.

After a minute, Aidan gathered up his nerves and looked up again, an air of hopeful boldness in his eyes. "I'm Aidan. Who're you?" he asked, tentatively puling his notebook out again without a second thought, still open to the other boy's page.

The dark haired boy blinked, peering at the notebook curiously, only to have Aidan move it away from his eye-range. He frowned, annoyed by the gray-haired boy's reluctance to show him – he was the type of boy who was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.

"My name's Luka," he lied breezily, reaching out to grab the notebook once again. But Aidan huffed and took another hop backwards, avoiding the attempt at the snatching.

And then, to the older boy's upmost surprise, Aidan called him out. "You're a liar," he accused angrily, nose scrunching up in irritation. "That's not your name."

The boy stared at him incredulously, blinking a very slow blink, doing an internal double-take. "How did you know?" he asked curiously, going over the moment in his mind. He hadn't looked to the left or right, as liars tend to do, nor had his voice changed in pitch.

Aidan smiled despite himself, the tiniest twinge of pride going through him, his British accent thick in his voice as he replied, "You don't look like a Luka. Besides, you hesitated before replying. Also, you've been acting secretive the entire time I followed you – you wouldn't give me your name that easily, would you?"

The boy's eyes flickered in surprise, shuffling his bare feet against the dirty ground below, thoughtful as he stared at the gray haired boy. Suddenly Aidan, on a rush of nerve, shot his hand forward into the space between there, letting a wavering but friendly smile spread across his face.

The dark-haired male stared at his hand as if it were an alien object. Aidan laughed uneasily when he had no other reaction, resisting the urge to lower his hand again. "It's a hand," he half-joked. "You shake it."

"Oh, I see. Thank you for explaining," the other boy replied, as if Aidan weren't joking at all –perhaps he didn't think that he was, it was hard to be certain – and reached out to take it, wrapping his spidery fingers around Aidan's uncertainly. He was a bit shaken when the younger boy's hand tightened around his, firmly shaking his arm up and down in a friendly yet unsettlingly awkward fashion.

"I'm Aidan," he repeated, more insistently, still holding onto L's hand as if he were unsure of what to do with it. "Who are you, really?"

For a long moment, the dark haired boy simply stared at him, the ancient-seeming panda-eyes positioned on the young ivory face gazing straight into the eyes of the other, as if reading his soul just with that look. As if he was peeking into his heart, to check if he could trust him, just with a glance. Aidan steeled himself over, or tried to, struggling to keep the bold smile on his face, desperately trying not to appear weak in front of the strange boy.

Finally, the other boy smiled his creepy little smile. And as he did, he spoke the words that would change the life of Aidan Aycott forever.

"I am L."

_**A/N: Huzzah. This was a lame chapter, sorry XD before you give me weird questions, because of Another Note, yes, that was ACTUALLY L. Not B in disguise (obviously, since B was at an orphanage in England at the time, remember? Besides, their only, like, toddlers pretty much. Super genius toddlers, but toddlers none the less.) Do you like my version of A..? **_

_**REVIEW! :C Beyond Birthday demands it!**_


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